


Disarm

by amatterofluck (lilithenaltum), lilithenaltum



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars
Genre: F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithenaltum/pseuds/amatterofluck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithenaltum/pseuds/lilithenaltum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disarm you with a smile and cut you like you want me to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarm

He’s tiny, in real life.

It’s the first thing I notice, which is something because he doesn’t have shades on and he’s staring the class down like we’re all lunch. And as blue as his eyes are, that should unnerve me. It doesn’t. I’m only focused on the fact that he’s not very big and his hair is huge.

It holds secrets.

I sit in the back of the lecture hall simply because I can’t be fucked with the group of giggling chicks in the front row, or the bro types behind them that keep asking him for high fives and what not. Granted, though, I realized that this is a lot less hectic than what he’s normally put against. And that’s nice, for him, I guess. I don’t know.

Why the hell is Jared Leto teaching metaphysics at LSU? He’s not a professor. Someone had the brilliant idea to get a celebrity to teach the class this term, and why he signed up is beyond me.

Hell. I don’t have a clue why I’m taking the damn class. I don’t really even know what metaphysics is, only, really from what Elle told me and I’m still sitting here like what the fuck.

I had this plan. Come to class all cute and decked out and then I realized I didn’t give a damn so I’m in sweats, a hoodie I don’t need for August Louisiana heat, and flip flops. I’m too damn old to give a shit what any of the guys in class think I look like. I’m too old for them all anyhow. And none of the professors are cute enough for me to be worried about. Except Jared. Who’s not a professor. And isn’t my type, anyway.

I’m in love with his brother, actually, so…

So the class progresses, over the course of a week or so, and I find that it is, actually, kind of interesting in that “I have no idea what the hell is going on but this is better than taking another calculus class” way. And Jared is charming, I’ll give him that. He’s just so tiny. And he giggles. Yep, he giggles. He flirts. A lot. The girls in the front row are in a battle against each other of who can dress the most provocative without showing everything, and the bros are all trying to one up the other with the filthiest jokes (that I’m not sure why he allows) but Jared just laughs and takes it all in stride. Whatever. He’s nice to listen to, and he keeps the class lively even if I spend a lot of my time tapping my pen on the desk and picking off the idiots in class in my head.

It takes a while for me to actually comment in class. I don’t really have much to contribute, I feel, but one question prickles me and I have to say something. “If I exist in this plane, does that mean there are more of me existing in separate planes elsewhere?” He leaves the question hanging and I can see the Fan Club down below pretending to think it over, but truth be told they’re really just staring at his non existent ass.

He doesn’t really have an ass. Just saying.

What possessed me to raise my hand, I’ll never really understand only that I had to say something and when he called on me “Ms. Lawry. In the back. Nice to see you can talk. You can talk, can’t you?” I wanna slap him. Instead, I narrow my eyes and glare. “I’ve been told I talk too much,” I say in the kind of voice that oozes boredom and irritation. I am a little irritated, but I’m not bored. That’s for show. “You would never guess,” he purrs, raising a brow and staring at me like I’m meat. He does this, a lot, to intimidate people who dare to answer any of his questions.

I don’t know why I’m not intimidated by him. I’m just not. He seems to realize this and is almost shocked.

“There are no other planes.”

He tilts his head. “Says…whom? What scientific evidence is there that you can give me to back that up.” I realize I’m going to get skewered for this but I intend on saying my piece and heading out the lecture hall anyway. “If there were, and there was a purpose for having such, we’d have all met each other by now. Existing in a separate plane from out other selves, if that’s plausible, would mean we’d bump into out other selves. I suppose the only thing that gets close to this doppelgangers, but even then, humans are all related in some way or another, so it makes sense biologically we’d meet someone that resembles us. Separate planes make about as much sense as tofu burgers.” He blinks then, his face passive but I’m baiting him picking on his veganism.

I’m a prickly kind, I’ll own up to that any day.

“And yet, you still haven’t given me concrete proof as to why there are no separate planes.”

“Because I said there aren’t.”

He laughs a little, as does most of the rest of the class, though I have a feeling they don’t know what they’re laughing at. “Oh? That doesn’t make sense. Neither is is credible.” I shrug as I get up, grabbing my bag and slipping my hood on, flopping down the stairs nosily.

“Neither does this 'class', Mr. Leto. Lies and poppycock, really. Just like my little shitty ass theory about why separate planes don’t exist. Maybe they do…but there’s no way anyone could ever prove it, now could they? So really…my non theory is just as credible as all the bullshit you’ve been spouting the last three weeks.”

In retrospect, I was as nervous as a deer amongst wolves, but I was working on three hours of sleep and a Monster, and wasn’t giving any fucks. No one said a word as I left the lecture hall. I didn’t expect anyone to.

I dropped the class the same day.

I didn’t see Jared again for another week or so, and even then I was avoiding him. I had another class in the same building so it was inevitable I’d run into him. He passed me, my usual head down, hoodie on, earphones in shtick, not missing his avid gaze. He turned, as I flip flopped on by, and called out to me. I pretended to not hear him. Figured if I did, he’d only stare a moment, then keep going.

He followed me. Out the door of the building into the hot Louisiana September, as I unlocked my truck, Bluebell. No more classes that day, no work. I just wanted to get to my dorm and bury myself in cupcakes and music. Instead, he stood beside the door waiting, until I rolled the window down and had to acknowledge him. Dammit.

“What you said in my class…that was…”

“Rude? I know. I can be. Rude, that is.”

He blinked.

“Uh, well, yeah. You can. But it’s…refreshing actually. I was disappointed you dropped me.”

You dropped me. No, I dropped your class, but okay.

“Why? No more rude bitchy interruptions questioning the logic and credibility of your class. Should be easy peasy.” He smiled. It only made me more irritable. I was tired, the sun was too high, I wanted to crawl under my covers and sleep.

“Because it opened up an entire new wave of thinking no one else had the audacity to bring up. Though, I suppose, you didn’t have to do it quite so bluntly…but I appreciate the honesty.” He looked away, towards the line of shimmering cars I was parked behind and I found myself appreciating his delicate bone structure. I won’t ever say the man isn’t pretty, that’s for sure. He just doesn’t do shit for me. “Well…uh, okay, thanks. I gotta go.” He nods but presses his hand on my window sill and I brake.

“You don’t have to come back to class. I’d just like for you to not be a stranger.”

I don’t really know what he means by that. I say as much. “Meaning, stop by the office. We can talk ‘bullshit’ all day if you want. It’s nice to have someone to talk to that isn’t kissing my ass or trying to suck my dick.” His vulgarity brings a tentative smile to my lips and I’m actually thinking about it. Lunch with Mr. Leto in his office. Bullshitting. “Maybe. If I’m not busy.” I pull off and turn the radio up higher, doing 65 in the parking lot before hauling ass towards my dorm.

The morning I actually do decide to take him up on his offer, I put a little effort into what I wear. Just jeans (though they’re nice jeans, high end ones I got on clearance for like, 80 percent off) and a simple tunic. But it’s practically formal wear considering I’ve spent the semester thus far living in my almost frayed at the ends pajama bottoms and an oversized Saints hoodie I snatched from Daddy before I left home. I even bother to pull my hair out of the scrunchie I put it in and wear it down, put on a little makeup.

I look decent.

I’m in between classes, two hour stretch and I don’t really have shit else to do, so I walk up the steps of the building he’s in and hold my breath the entire way there. The lecture hall is empty, but he’s in his office with the door locked, I presume, sitting in his chair and eating. I knock twice and he opens the door with a grin that almost automatically makes me want to roll my eyes. “Nice to see you. Do come in. Have you had lunch yet? I’ve got a giant ass salad if you wanna share.” I look down at what he’s snacking on and truth be told, there isn’t anything left for me, only a few stray pieces of baby spinach and half an onion. “Uh…no thank you. I’ll get something later.” He settles back into his chair and puts his feet on the desk, crosses his fingers across his chest and watches me with that same grin. His eyes are really blue. I meet them head on.

“What made you come?”

“You invited me. I was bored.” I shrug nonchalantly.

“How are your classes?”

“Okay. I guess.”

“Do I intimidate you?”

“Nope.”

He pauses and searches my face for a second. “I don’t, do I?” “Why’d you ask me that?” He shrugs. “I wanted to know, is all. If you’d fess up, that is.” I snort. “And I’d have what reason to lie?” “I’m Jared Leto.” “So?” His smile is genuine. “I knew I liked you for a reason. Who does intimidate you though, Melanie?” The way he says my name makes me a little uncomfortable, but not enough that I can’t hide it. “Oh, the usual. The police, the dean, really tall guys with big muscles.” Your brother. “He raises a brow and his mouth opens in a what I guess is a laugh, and it takes me a second to realize I’d actually said the last part aloud. Oops. “Shannon? Intimi- oh sweet Jesus, he’s a creampuff. I’m guessing you’re a Mars fan, right?” I nod. As if the triad around my neck didn’t give me away. I rarely take it off, mostly because I’m too lazy too and a little because it’s…comforting. “There is nothing intimidating about Shannon, I swear he’s the easiest guy in the world to get along with…” He trails off a bit and leans forward and I’m only glancing around the room, nervous, a little unsteady. Discussing Shannon with his brother is…weird. Really weird.

“Oh…”

He sounds as though he has a secret and I’m guessing he does and oh god he can read me like a book. I hate him right then.

“You’ve got a crush on Shannon.” His lips curl into a smile, his blue eyes twinkling mischeviously. “I’ll be fucked sideways. That’s why I’m not intimidating. Because you’re in love with my brother.” He finds this awfully amusing. I find it humiliating. “I’m not in love,” I say, croaking a little, before I clear my throat. “I just…I’m not. I don’t even know him.” “So? Doesn’t stop anyone else from claiming everlasting love and devotion to a celebrity. I should so call him right now, let him know about this…you’re cute, actually, he’d probably be down to meet you, you know, just let me-” “I”m not like everyone else!” I say, nearly yelling, and I’m shaking a bit because his fingers on the button of his blackberry and I’m convince he really is going to call Shannon and that is not good. Nope. He stops, watches me and puts his phone down. “I know that,” he says, quietly. “I know. It’s lonely, isn’t it?” I blink and level my breathing but don’t say yay or neigh. I won’t let him read me that thoroughly.

“I have to go.”

I get up and gather my bag, walking on wobbly legs to his door, kicking myself for acting like an idiot in his presence. I’m supposed to be unaffected by him. I’m supposed to be cool and not caring.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, gently, and I say nothing, don’t even look back. I only walk as fast as I can to the door of the lecture hall and out the building and into the safety of the heat and sun and outside.

Part of me swears up and down I won’t see him later. The other part of me knows I will.

And I do.

We meet up like that, initially, once a week. He never really brings that first day up, thankfully. I think he’s a little remorseful about his teasing. And then once a week turns into three times a week which nearly turns into everyday, right before Thanksgiving. I don’t have time off from work to go home for the holiday but I do have to get out my dorm. I don’t have anyone to stay with either. But I’ve prepared for this. I saved enough change to get a hotel room at Holiday Inn for that week and pack what I want of my shit and head out the campus. It’s the first time in a long time I don’t see him.

He does text me, though. I wonder if perhaps giving him my number is really a good idea, because he likes to send me the most random shit-jokes that take me hours to get (and when I do I’m laughing like an idiot, at work) or pictures of stupid stuff. Like a trash can. “I’m dying my hair,” he texts me, as I flop into bed the third day of the break at the hotel and I roll my eyes. “What color?” “Blonde.” I cringe. Blonde. Oh god.

He sends me a picture of the hair dye and a goofy grin and I can’t help but smile. It’s strange, in some way, that I consider the little blue eyed man my friend now. Very strange. I don’t even like him a lot of the time.

When he’s done he sends me a picture and I burst into giggles but only text back “oop.” It’s an awful dye job. He looks plum haggard and really pissed and all I can do is recommend him back to Walgreens and the darkest dye he can find. Two boxes, just in case.

He does look better, the next day, when he redyes it.

When I pack up my bag after the break’s over and head back to my dorm, I realize how much I don’t miss it. The gaggle and giggles of the girls and their talk of parties and getting drunk. I sigh, thankful I shelled out the extra cash to get a private dorm room and fall asleep thinking of bad dye jobs.

Our visits resume, the same way as they had before. He is fun to talk to, though he has a nasty habit of pissing me off by the end of the lunch. Lunch with Mr. Leto. He’s a lot of things…actor, singer, director. But he’s not a professor, and he’s not a doctor. So why I come to him for English homework help, I haven’t a clue. He’s good with words though. And he does help me figure out some of the more vague and brain taxing essay questions. I’m sure I pass my English class simply because of him. “I don’t even know why I need an English class to be a nurse,” I say, dipping a crusty piece of French bread into oil and nibbling. “You don’t, really. You don’t need a lot of these classes for your chosen profession.” He sips his water and looks up at me, and not for the first time do I think about how close his eyes are. It’s cute, actually. “You don’t really need to be a nurse, if you ask me.” I frown. “Why not?” “Because your heart’s not in it,” he says simply and he’s right, I know, but dammit, being an RN is going to make me money.

“If you don’t want to do something, don’t force yourself through it simply for the cash. It’s not worth it.”

“I don’t have the luxury of chasing my dreams, Jared,” I say, a little sharper than I intend, but it’s a sore spot for me. He knows that. He’s doing this on purpose. “And I did?” He snorts. “I worked my ass off to get where I am. I’m still working my ass off to keep it.” His voice softens. “But I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Do what you want. You’ve still got time to change your major, you know. Digital art is a great program.” “Will digital art make me money?” As inticing as the idea of spending all day drawing and sketching and playing with photoshop is… He tilts his head and gives me a grin I realize he only uses when he knows I’m going to do what he wants. “It could. If you’ve got the talent. I think you do. Even still, make it your bitch. Work that shit until it does make you money. Money isn’t everything. But doing what you love…that is.”

When I go back to my dorm, I realize I’m already thinking of paint on my fingers and smudge marks on my shirts. Canvasses. Sketch pads, portfolios.

I’m going to change my major.

I start Christmas break with a slashed tire and out of money so there goes Holiday Inn. After getting it fixed, I’ve got all of 100 bucks on me…and I still can’t go home; I get a shit ton of hours during the holidays, and they need me, and my boss is nice and I can’t let her down.

“You could always stay with me,” Jared says, and I think he’s joking but he’s not. He’s got a nice apartment in the swankier part of Baton Rouge with three bedrooms and a clawfoot bathtub. I’m sure there’s some kind of rule against staying the holiday with your professor. But then I remind myself he’s not my professor and he’s not even a professor period and I’m not taking his class anymore anyway.

I’ll just stay out the way, I figure, I’ll be at work anyhow and he’s really being nice…

The room he puts me in is right across the hall from his. There’s no bed in there, so he runs out to Bed Bath and Beyond before it closes that night and buys me one. Just like that. A bed. No mattress, so we run down the road to Mattress King and he gets me the most plush one he can afford. Which isn’t saying much. He can afford any mattress in the store. Sheets and pillows from Walmart because everyone is closed by then but them, and we grab Chinese on the way home. We pack everything in Bluebell (his car won’t hold all of this) and head out to his place.

This is weird. Or, it should be, but it really isn’t. He likes to sit around his room wearing socks and pajamas and watch reruns of The Mighty Boosh. He slurps up a mouthful of lo mein and laughs, and I sit beside him, a little stiff because there’s probably a boundary we’re crossing that we shouldn’t. But three episodes in and I losen up a tad, ease back onto his pillows and find myself laughing with him.

The first three days are pretty normal. I go to work, get off, grab some take out, come to Jared’s and we eat, watch tv on his bed or listen to music. Sometimes he lets me write on my laptop while he works on something on his and we’re just quiet, and it’s nice. His presence is calming, welcoming. But non invasive and I like that about him. He knows how to give me space when I want it.

“I really want some cupcakes,” he mentions, on the third night, and I hold one of mine out to him but he sighs and shakes his head. “I’m trying to be good, Mel. That ain’t vegan, ma’am.” I laugh a little and lick frosting from my fingers. I don’t really notice his eyes following my tongue right then. “I’m sure there’s a bakery in town that’ll make vegan cupcakes.” “But they’ll be closed tomorrow. It’s almost Christmas Eve.” I roll my eyes and roll out of bed, toss my cupcake paper in the trash beside his desk.

“It’ll be fine Jared. I’m sure you can wait till the day after Christmas.”

I know for a fact he’s pouting almost as much as he knows for a fact that I’m going to be googling vegan cupcake recipe’s when I get back from the bathroom.

Christmas Eve is when we shift. I suppose it should’ve been a slight, almost imperceptible shift if it was fated to happen (I’m not sure I believe in fate, truthfully) but it isn’t. It’s as abrupt as an earthquake.

That morning I work a quick shift, pick up some last minute things from Whole Foods before they close, and head the apartment to find Jared dancing in the kitchen, a knife in one hand, tomato in the other. “The hell…virgin sacrifices for tomatoes, now?” I ask, grinning and he shrugs, keeps wiggling his hips. “Perhaps. What’s in the bag?” It’s organic flour, applesauce, dark chocolate chips. Basically, what I need to make chocolate vegan cupcakes. I set everything on the counter and dig out bows and measuring cups and set the oven on 350.

“You’re the sweetest thing, I swear.” He kisses my cheek and I freeze, the brush of his lips on my skin almost like an electric current. He only dances into the living room and changes the music, not really noticing that I’m broke out in goosebumps or that I’m hot and flushed and shaking a little.

From a kiss on the cheek.

I’m frosting the first dozen when he comes back into the kitchen. “Should I now or later? We still gotta eat the salad.” I shrug. I’m afraid to talk to him. He notices. He pokes a finger into the cupcake he picks up and sucks off the frosting and crumbs, then takes a bite, nodding. “Damned good, damned good. You should bake for me more often.” He leans against the counter, his hair falling into his eyes, and I’m suddenly reminded of Jordan Catalano and I suddenly get why everyone had such a thing for him.

He leans great.

“Mel…”

 

“We should eat the salad,” I say, my voice shaking a bit, but he only wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him, forcing me to put the my frosting bag down. He turns my cheek so that I have to look him in his eyes and for the first time they do, in fact, intimidate me. He’s just a googly eyed motherfucker. That’s all. Why is your heart beating so damned fast?

I can pinpoint the exact time on the microwave out the corner of my eye the moment he kissed me the first time. The song that played from the living room. The number of cupcakes I’d finished frosting. The time left on the oven for the other batch.

It was 5:43 p.m.

Smashing Pumpkins “Cherub Rock” was playing.

I’d frosted 10 cupcakes, besides the one he’d half eaten.

There was 9 minutes left on the ones in the oven.

But he kissed me and the seconds slowed and my heart literally stopped. My mouth opened, just enough for his to take possession of it and he practically drank me in like good wine. Like water with lemon and mint. His fingers on the base of my neck tightened, the arm around my waist tugged me closer. He was kissing me. Devouring me. Our lips pushed and pulled against each other, tongues slipping in against the others. I could taste the cupcakes on his mouth, a little bit of white wine he’d had earlier. Tea. He sucked the breath out my lungs, pushed it back in, his mouth sliding down a little as he sucked on my bottom lip and I moaned, without meaning to as his hand slid lower past the small of my back and gripped my ass.

When he pulled away for lack of air, I could only stand still, eyes closed. I was lost, swirling somewhere between “this is so wrong this is so wrong this is so wrong” and “don’t ever stop kissing me”. He said nothing, only reached over and turned the oven off, grabbed my hand and led me to his bedroom.

I didn’t stand a chance.

First kisses usually are just that. First kisses. They end with either jubilant and gleeful giddiness or hot embarrassed but longing want.

My first kiss with Jared was neither. He gave me no chance to have either. Instead, he tugged my clothes off and kissed me again, deeply, pulled me down to his bed and feasted on my skin. His fingers mapped patterns along my flesh, tugged at the curls of my hair and exposed my neck to his hungry mouth. He stripped himself quickly, almost as if he didn’t do this now, act now, the moment would pass. And maybe it would have. Maybe I would have snapped out of whatever haze I was in and tell him this wasn’t right. Even if I did want it as bad as I did. Even if I was aching and soaking wet and…

The song in the living room switched. Edwyn Collins. “A Girl Like You”. I remember this distinctly because I was completely naked underneath him and he was between my thighs. He spread them open, licking his fingers before sliding them inside me and I gasped, arching from the bed as he pushed and explored, curling his middle finger up and stroking me even as I rode his hand. I was wonton, almost unexpectedly, since up until then I’d still been somewhat subdued around him. But he pulled away, digging around his wallet with fumbling hands and mussed dark hair and startling blue eyes for a condom. He didn’t need to say anything, no words exchanged which was slightly out of character for the both of us. Most of the time, we spent our time talking up a storm about anything, almost as we were in a competition of who could out talk the other. There were no words then, none, not even as I dug my nails into his sides and groaned with him as we joined.

Goddamn it he was big. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it had hurt a little, nor would I stroke his ego. Instead, I pushed through the slight pain and moved my hips up, urging him to go and he did, hard, deep. Slow. He took his time, almost as if he wanted this to last the entire night. I moved with him, keeping his rhythm, his pace. Back, forth, up, around, repeat. It was like the beat of a song, the beat of my heart in my chest, the pulse that raced through me as the pleasure between my thighs built and built. I moaned against his neck almost desperately, fighting the need to curl around him and beg him to go faster, harder. Please. I wouldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

I didn’t.

He grabbed the headboard and stretched out over me, and I opened my eyes, drinking in the sight of him above me. The pale skin glistening in the dark bedroom. Sweat sheen chest and dark hair and chiseled muscle that pushed and pulled and took me for all it was worth. I followed his “provehito in altum” tattoo with hazy eyes until his breathing hitched and he groaned, grasping my hips with one hand and pushing harder. He was close. I was closer. I met his eyes and he nodded, almost as if we were of one accord then. One purpose.

We were.

I pulled my thighs up and took him deeper, clenching and moving with him, grasping out stuff that made no sense, my hands in the thick dark hair and as he worked me, faster, desperate to ring every drop of pleasure from me, I let myself fall. I shattered, into a million pieces, crying out his name in the steamy, foggy bedroom.

Screaming Trees “I Nearly Lost You” was playing when he came.

We didn’t leave his bed the entire rest of Christmas Eve. Only once during Christmas, to clean up the cupcake mess in the oven and on the counter and finally turn the stereo off. Then back into bed. And more sex. More. More. More. Sex all of Boxing Day, though I was a little disappointed we didn’t catch any of the after Christmas Sales. I was sore as a motherfucker by the time I crawled out of bed to bake him a birthday cake.

“Happy 41st” I said, brushing hair from my eyes and he drank in my body as if he hadn’t already seen every inch. There wasn’t much there to look at, if you asked me. But he was entranced, almost, by my long chicken legs. My small breasts, the slender hips. I guess I was enough, at least, to satiate his desire for a few days. And that was fine. That’s all this was.

Right?

I didn’t know the answer to that until the break was nearly over and I packed to go back to my dorm. “You don’t have to go back,” he said, lounging on the bed shirtless, hair a mess. “You could always get your money back from Fin Aid and use it for something else. Like a trip to France. Or something. You could stay here.” I blinked at him and stuffed a sweater into my duffle. “I can’t stay with you. You’d get tired of me.” He smiled, reached out and I fell into his arms even though I swore this was just a casual thing. A fuck buddy. A very pretty fuck buddy.

He’s too pretty for me. He really is.

“Nope. I won’t. Promise.” And his lashes brushed his cheeks and I got a glimpse of Jordan Catalano for a second and I almost blushed. I don’t even like Jordan Catalano. I always liked Shane.

I always wanted Shannon.

I never wanted Jared. But who’s arms am I in now? Who’s bed have I been in the last week and a half?

“Eh, well…” I don’t commit to anything, but I do leave the next day. He almost seems sad, staring out the window and he waves and I do too, goodnaturedly.

I’m not at my dorm for 10 minutes before I’m hauling everything in it that I own back to my truck. I don’t wanna be here. I wanna be with him. I wanna be in bed with him hearing him ramble about shit that makes no sense to me. I wanna kiss his little cute ski jump nose and call him a googly eyed bastard and watch him laugh when I do.

So I drive back as it began to rain and sleet and I nearly skid into the parking spot because I was speeding. To get back to him. Googly eyed short little Jared Leto. With the infuriating grin and the cocky ego that’s really all just a front. He met me at the door and wrapped me into his arms with a kiss and scooped me up and took me to his room and made love to me as it sleeted and iced over in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

I didn’t realize I’d fallen in love with him until almost March, before Spring Break, as he lay tucked under my chin, his hands on my ass. He was in love with my ass for some reason. And the mole on my leg. And my hair and the bump on my nose and…

“Where should we go?” I shrug. I can’t go home for sure now. I’d confessed to my mother I had a boyfriend and she had pretty much forbidden me from coming back unless I broke up with him. I wouldn’t. I was a little too addicted to making Jared vegan cupcakes to do that. Mama would just have to deal.

“Hawaii.”

“You’ll love it.”

“I’ve never been.”

He looked up and smiled and it was then, as “Disarm” played softly on the radio that I fell. Hard. It took my breath away. But he didn’t have to know that. I only smiled back and rolled him over and took his mouth with mine.

June was the most dreaded month in the world to me. His term as professor of metaphysics was up and he was going back to L.A. And I wasn’t. I couldn’t. He knew that. I knew that. Before we even did any of this. So I pretended I was okay, and that I’d keep in touch and we’d be friends though it was killing me to watch him pack. The drive to the airport was chatty, mostly on my part because the idea of silence, not talking to him, was tearing me apart. I wouldn’t let him know that though.

“I’m going to miss the quiet,” he said, as I waited with him as long as I could. I looked around the airport and nodded. No paparazzi. No invasive fans. Just quiet. “You’d have gotten stir crazy here, too long, though,” I commented, cleared my throat and looked away. He only sighed, as if he wanted me to say more, but I didn’t. I just held his hand until he had to go through security. Until I had to let him go.

He waved one more time and I watched his plane take off before pulling out the airport parking lot.

I cried the entire way back to his apartment, silently.

That summer was spent working, saving for a semester abroad in France. Jared paid rent and utilities on the apartment for a year ahead, so I didn’t have to worry about a place to stay. I didn’t call him. I didn’t think I could deal with just talking to him on the phone. I stayed off the internet, read a lot. Did crossword puzzles. Lay out in the sun though I was already dark and soaked in the rays, wearing his sunglasses and then crawled into bed and watched movies and wrapped myself in his sheets that still smelled of him. Of us.

I didn’t wash them that entire summer.

Early August is when I actually almost had to call him. I was two months late, period wise. My boobs hurt. I’d not had much appetite. I was too scared to take a pregnancy test, especially alone. And though I was cordial with people at work and school, I didn’t dare ask anyone to sit with me while I waited. 90 seconds. That’s all it would take to pee on a stick and find out if I carried Jared’s kid. But I couldn’t do it. Instead, he called me, almost as if he knew. “It’s so fucking hot here. And not Louisiana hot.” “Really?” I thought about Hawaii and how we made love in a hammock and nearly fell out. “You okay?” “Yes. No. Maybe.” “What’s wrong.” He said it like a statement, as if he already knew something was wrong. He just wanted me to tell him. “I think I’m pregnant,” I whispered. He was silent for a very long nerve wracking minute. And then he said something to someone in the back ground and he was back.

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

When I picked him up at the airport, in Bluebell, he was waiting in shorts and a tank top, a smile on his face. He looked like an angel in the shimmering sunlight, dark hair longer than it was when he left, and pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He hadn’t shaved in a while.

“Walgreens or Rite Aid? And we’ll get three or four, just to be sure. And maybe a visit to the health clinic in the morn-” “Jared.” He stopped rambling, reached out and grabbed my hand. “I’m scared, okay? I’m not…I never really thought about me becoming a dad.” “Do you even want kids?” I asked, though I knew the answer to that. He nodded. “Yeah…do you?” I held on to his hand and pulled onto the interstate. “Five. And a llama ranch in Australia.” He chuckled, a little nervous and my tummy fluttered. “Then maybe we’ll have one. I like Australia. And llamas. And kids.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek, sighed. “I missed you,” I confessed and he nodded.

“Ditto”

Forty three minutes later, back at his apartment, I wiggled my hands outside the bathroom and waited. The timer went off and I let out a breath, but it was Jared that got up, went in there and checked all four tests.

“What do you want? A boy or a girl?” I stared at him with wide eyes and almost hit the floor, but managed to flop on the bed instead.

“A girl.”

He grinned. “Me too. But you’ll have to wait a few years, I guess for that. They’re all negative.” I almost passed out in relief, though a bit of sadness washed over me. I’d already named that little girl. Arlyn Isolde. She’d come later, though. “You ass,” I breathed out as he kissed me, and I leaned back against his chest.

I was happy.

My period showed up the day after, actually and I cursed, but was secretly relieved. Further proof I wasn’t knocked up. I wasn’t ready for that yet. But I would be. Maybe, one day. Jared made me lasagna, vegan lasagna, and cookies and we ate on the balcony of his apartment, white wine and Smashing Pumpkins and the sunset of an early August Louisiana. And for the first time, I wondered if this was what not being lonely was like. I liked it. A lot.

I still have a crush on Shannon. But I love Jared. Which is weird. Jared doesn’t think so. He just teases me about it and threatens to call his brother and tell him. And I smack him in the head with a pillow and get lost in his googly blue eyes.

End


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